On The Trust
Think England what it is to shake,
& better use your King,
His power raisd the frozen snake,
& Must he when he hears it speak,
find how the tongue can sting?
Trustees you make in long debates,
Which he is forcd to give;
While by your trust the rebell getts,
The subject looses bought estates,
& the oppressors live.
Pitty us heaven, & lend your aid,
Anothers intrest sett us free,
& now it gives us slavery,
Thus weakness is a property,
& Greatness still obeyd.
The men whose heavy arms we feel
By Politicks are good or ill,
Deceiving, or deceivd;
Their law is founded on their will,
& our's by that inslavd.
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
On Bishop Burnet's Being Set On Fire In His Closet
From that dire æra, bane to Sarum's pride,
Which broke his schemes and laid his friends aside,
He talks and writes that Pop'ry will return,
And we, and he, and all his works will burn.
What touch'd himself was almost fairly prov'd,
(Oh, far from Britain be the rest remov'd!)
For, as of late he meant to bless the age
With flagrant Prefaces of party-rage,
O'er-wrought with passion and the subject's weight,
Lolling, he nodded in his elbow-seat,
Down fell the candle; Grease and Zeal conspire,
Heat meets with heat, and Pamphlets burn their Sire.
Here crawls a Preface on its half-burn'd maggots,
And there an Introduction brings its faggots;
Then roars the Prophet of the Northern Nation,
Scorch'd by a flaming speech on Moderation.
Unwarn'd by this, go on the realm to fright,
Thou Briton, vaunting in thy second-sight;
In such a Ministry you safely tell,
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Meditation Before Sacrament
Arise my soul & hast away
Thy god doth call & canst thou stay
Thee to his table he invites
To tast of heavenly delights
He sufferd death to sett thee free
From sin; & canst thou slothfull be
To serve him should he for it call
Thy life would be a gift too small
But he desires to make it Blest
And now Invites thee to a feast
A feast of the divinest food
A feast of our own saviours flesh & blood
For shame dull sluggish soul arise
Wilt thou so great a good despise
You'de earthly kings obey with pride
& is ye king of heav'n deni'de
Thou know'st not what this act doth mean
Or would'st not sure be Backward then
The god who all has made tis he
Invites so base a worm as thee
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
A Beavy Of The Fair & Gay
A Beavy of the fair & Gay,
Such as are daily Smoakt in tea,
& toasted over wine,
Vext to be made so long the Jeast
Of tongues & pens, to go in quest
Of reputation Joyn.
To K---d's house they first repair,
But scarce find any footsteps there,
to keep them off cold scent;
Long had she fled his slavery,
Her gallants stabbd him first, & she
Woud bury him in paint.
To O---y's they next advance,
But he was vanishd on a glance
to Make some conquest shott;
One who so many loves as she,
& one who loves fooles company,
Must love for you know what.
Of T---n newes in vain they sought,
Scarce M---ws covets to be thought
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Caius Rubrius Urbanus Romae In Domo Lud: Matthæi. E Grutero
The Father lying in Bed hugging in his left arm a pot of Mony & laying severall pieces out of it before him. the son sitts at his feet in the habit of a souldier taking with his right hand some pieces that drop. A three footstool stands near him on which three other pots: this written.
The Man who livd with avaritious care
Who starvd the growing virtues of his heir
Who bound to slav'ry by the vice he chose
Coud envy to himself his own respose
Woud have his latest image here exprest
Thus lolling on ye Genial bed of rest
That since with death his long vexations cease
His Stone might speak him with an air of peace
Beneath his feet the son a Souldier leans
Compelld by want to warr in forreign plains
There fell the Youth by deaths unerring dart
& with fresh sorrows broke ye misers heart
Here both seem pleasd but what avails ye sight
No Picturd kindness gives ye dead delight
The Father Never thus supplyd the son
But thus to bless them both he shoud have don
poem by Thomas Parnell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
For Philip Ridgate Esq.
To friend with fingers quick & limber,
I send this piece of tunefull timber:
that, as 'tis said in Orpheus story,
He may teach trees to dance a Bory;
Or else in modern Phrase more knavish,
He may the heart of broomstick ravish.
The man whose parts in Taverns shine,
Doates on the merry pipe of wine;
& he who late has got his pate full,
perceives the water pipe is gratefull;
But these are pipes that still are mute,
there is some musick in a flute.
Which since I as a present send,
the presents worth to recommend,
Ile in soft words its praises warble,
translated from Italian marble.
'When ere we hear its strains & closes,
'Enchanted reason sweetly dozes,
'on laps of nymphs, & beds of roses;
'the Soul that all its charms admires,
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Three Verse Passages From A Prose Meditation
On verdurd trees ye silver blossoms grow
Whose leaves atop their perfect whiteness show
& faintly streak with stains of red below
The western breeze steales ore ye shady grove
to sigh near roses as insnard by love.
The waves pushed on by waves in mountains ly
Mixd with ye clouds ye Parent waters fly
& the cross'd winds roar hideous in ye sky
The east & west the south & north contend
While the vexd sea beneath is neithers friend
Above ye winds below the billows Jarr
& nature is become the seat of warr
Look how ye silent waters stealing by
With such smooth motions as deceive our eye
Returns ye pleasing pictures of ye sky
There shines ye sun with imitated rayes
her borrowd light ye paler moon displays
& ye cleare heavens wear an azure face
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Prop: 2, L: 11 E: Quicunque &c
Vast was his soul some favorite above
Whose bolder pencil made a boy of love
A boy he thought him lovers less then boyes
Who barter all things for a crop of toyes
He wisely too his roving pow'r bestowd—
& in unconstant feathers drest the God
for now we love anon we hate ye same
Fantastick passion varyes all extreams
Justly he drew him for his play things darts
The little wanton sports with bleeding hearts
Justly he drew them to my cost Ive found
Unseen they fly & still secure to wound
his arms & younger follys fill my heart
But he has lost or hid his better part
His wings no more their heav'nly burthen bear
He sitts an everlasting trouble here
My bloud he fires torments my wretched breast
Drains all my bones & robs my soul of rest
Cease cruell master fly to fuller veines
Your slave is wasted with incessant pains
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
Ye Wives Who Scold & Fishes Sell
Ye Wives who scold fishes sell,
Or sing sell your fruit,
I want a wondrous thing to tell,
Then (if you can) be mute.
From some of You one Homer came,
Who wrote a ballad first,
For He knew neither Parents name
Nor livd where he was nurst
His verse in length exceeds us all
So when a crowd he drew,
Like you he got him to a stall,
spoke as long as you.
Some tatterd Mermaid gave him birth
Who crys her oyster wares
Or Else some ragged nymph of earth
Who sings her Mellow pears
If 'twas the nymph of fruit was prest,
Apollo was ye Lover:
With tunefull cry he filld her breast,
got a singing Rover.
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
On A Lady With A Foul Breath
Art thou alive? It cannot be,
There's so much Rottenness in Thee,
Corruption only is in Death;
And what's more Putrid than thy Breath?
Think not you Live, because you Speak,
For Graves such hollow Sounds can make;
And Respiration can't suffice,
For Vapours do from Caverns rise:
From Thee such noisom Stenches come,
Thy Mouth betrays thy Breast a Tomb.
Thy Body is a Corpse that goes,
By Magick rais'd from its Repose:
A Pestilence that walks by Day,
But falls at Night to Worms and Clay.
But I will to my Chloris run,
Who will not let me be undone:
The Sweets her Virgin-Breath contains,
Are fitted to remove my Pains;
There will I healing Nectar sip,
And to be sav'd, approach her Lip,
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!